


Sugar and spice

by A_fighter_like_Eowyn



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst and Romance, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Comfort/Angst, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Dorks in Love, Emotional Hurt, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eventual Fluff, Eventual Romance, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Friendship/Love, Gentle Kissing, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kissing, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Romantic Fluff, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 05:46:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27658364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_fighter_like_Eowyn/pseuds/A_fighter_like_Eowyn
Summary: Jaskier decides to hurt himself, because he is frustrated with Geralt repeatedly running away from his feelings and emotions.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 3
Kudos: 133





	Sugar and spice

**Author's Note:**

> I could not find time to revise (which is usually not the case with my fics), so if you spot any typos, feel free to point them out :-)

Jaskier is mad at Geralt.

No, that's actually a diluted statement about his current state of mind. Jaskier is positively seething. Quivering in barely contained frustration. It's a miracle that no jets of steam have squirted from his ears yet.

_And to make it all worse, Geralt is acting clueless and oblivious._

Jaskier does not for one moment believe that Geralt is unaware. No. Bastard knows exactly how worked up his bard is. And he has conveniently slipped into his role of the emotionally stunted, infuriatingly taciturn, brooding Witcher to avoid any and all conversations. 

Jaskier huffs. His hands are far too cold thanks to the chill northerly gusts of wind that have been buffeting them for a while now, and he digs them deeper into his pockets, hunches his shoulders and bows his head forward in an attempt to shield himself from the prying fingers of the icy blasts. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Geralt watching him with concern, then shuffling closer and attempting to put an arm around him, to pull the bard closer and sheltering him with the unnatural heat of his mutant body.

But Jaskier is _really_ not in the mood. He grits his teeth and increases his pace, darting past Geralt. 

_And pretends not to notice the way the Witcher's jaws clench and his face hardens._

"Jaskier", Geralt growls low behind him, "Come back here. There's an extra quilt in my saddlebag. Let me put it around you."

"No", comes the uncharacteristically terse reply.

Geralt sighs. "Would you rather ride Roach?"

Jaskier shakes his head in resignation -- they have already talked about this. It usually proves better to walk beside Roach instead of riding her during such wintry afternoons. Roach's body acts like a natural shield against the chilly gales, and walking helps the two men keep themselves warm. 

"No", comes yet another clipper reply, and Jaskier increases his pace a bit more, knowing full well that if the Witcher and his mare want to catch up with him, they can do so with laughable ease.

Geralt glares at the back of his bard, then sighs again. "Stubborn bard", he mutters, and then, louder, "In that case, I think we should start looking for an inn early. It's going to get dark sooner than usual."

He is rewarded with complete silence.

"And I don't want you freezing to death. Not on my watch", the Witcher mutters again under his breath.

**************************************************************************************************

Two days back.

"Y-your n-nose is still bl-bleeding", Jaskier hiccups, trying his best to calm down. 

He is not really able to help it. His whole frame is still shaking from the aftershocks of mind-numbing, crippling fear and pain. His lower lip is still wobbling. Tears are still streaming down his face. 

"Jasky..."

Geralt's voice is raspy. He tries to smile, but the mottled bruises and swellings marring his face make it look more like a pained grimace.

The scraped hand with bleeding gashes pressing down on Jaskier's thigh does absolutely nothing to calm the agitated, distressed bard. Jaskier's hands shake as he dabs a clean, moistened washcloth against his Witcher's cut, swollen lip, then softly wipes away the thin trail of blood running down the Witcher's nostril.

"C-could have ... l-lost you ...", Jaskier chokes on a strangled sob at that, and fresh torrents of tears well up in his eyes, and Geralt rushes forward to take the sobbing bard in his arms.

"No, Jasky, I'm okay ... I swear, love ..."

Geralt freezes. 

Jaskier continues to sob into his chest, soaking the mud-splattered shirtfront.

"A-almost l-lost you", the words tumble out, a little muffled, as the bard weeps feebly, burrowing deeper into Geralt's chest, and quite unaware of how the Witcher sits there completely stiff and rigid, "I was s-so afraid ... you were b-bleeding so much. Why d-did you not t-take me with you? Why? Why?"

More sobs follow, and Geralt just sits there with Jaskier in his arms, until the bard is just absolutely spent.

It is then that Jaskier realizes how unresponsive Geralt has been.

He looks up, his eyes still tearful and bloodshot. He is still pressed to his Wolf's chest, and he is greeted with the sight of Geralt staring straight ahead, chin raised, eyes blazing, jaws tight, lips pressed in a thin line, a deep frown creasing his brow.

_The very picture of defiance. Of denial and refusal._

Jaskier's heart gives a painful twinge. He knows this stance. Knows that his Wolf is withdrawing himself into his shell. 

The bard rakes his brains, replaying everything from the last few minutes, in an attempt to understand what has brought this on. And then, realization dawns on him.

"Geralt?", his voice is small, as he timidly reaches out to touch the chiseled jawline of the Witcher.

Geralt jerks away.

He clears his throat. "I am fine, Jaskier. I won't need your ministrations", the cold, aloof tone is back in that rumbling, gravelly voice.

Jaskier valiantly suppresses his urge to flinch. Instead, his own face hardens. And as Geralt tries to subtly move away from him, he pushes himself off his Witcher's chest.

"Oh, I see."

Geralt's eyes whip up to him, then narrow.

"What?", the tone is now steeped in defensiveness.

"Accidentally called me "love", did you, Butcher?", Jaskier spits out, aware that the epithet would slice through his Wolf's heart like a scimitar, and yet unable to stop himself. 

He is so tired of this. It's been like this for as long as he can remember. 

_This dance. This walking on eggshells. This ... whatever this is that they have between them._

Between the enthusiastic, eloquent, warm, loving, affectionate, frolicking, flippant bard and the reticent, emotionally constipated, self-deprecating, self-loathing, standoffish Witcher. 

On one hand, a human who falls in love entirely too easily, gives his heart away entirely too readily, and who is determined to make his Witcher see why he is _not_ the resented, mistrusted, ostracized monster that he thinks he is, but a noble, kind, compassionate white knight.

On the other, a mutant who is entirely too convinced of being an unwanted, unlovable, undesirable outcast, entirely too certain that any and all association with him can only bring another individual misery and heartache and ill reputation, and who is determined to keep his bard safe from himself.

They have been dancing around each other for a while now. One step forward, three steps backward. Jaskier feels like he has been trying to befriend a skittish, feral cat. Because one moment, Geralt is giving in to his feelings, to his urge to shower his bard with all the happiness and care and love in the world, just as he deserves, and the next, the Witcher is catching himself -- catching himself with his palm draped on Jaskier's forehead, with his arm softly pulling Jaskier closer to himself, with his spoon holding up his own share of rabbit stew to Jaskier's mouth, with his lips effortlessly narrating stories of monster hunts and adolescent years spent in Kaer Morhen to a fondly smiling Jaskier curling up next to him on his bedroll -- and then he is shutting himself off. He is recoiling, and he is retracting into his proverbial shell. 

One moment, he is allowing himself to be vulnerable and soft and tender around his bard, and the next, he is steeling himself, obstinately building back up the walls and ramparts of defense around his heart that Jaskier has taken so much trouble to meticulously chip away at and tear down.

And at this moment, when Jaskier is still trying to recover from the scare he got upon seeing the state in which Geralt came back to him after hunting down an entire coven of vicious vampires -- battered and bleeding profusely and with vampire venom coursing through his blood -- the bard _really_ cannot take it anymore.

It is rare of Jaskier to lose his calm. To lose patience with his Witcher.

"Do you realize how scared I was? Seeing you like that? After your brush with death? Do you realize how much it hurts me to even contemplate the possibility of not having you around?"

Jaskier does not realize when he has gotten to his feet. He is not exactly towering over Geralt (damn the Witcher's impressive stature, even while he is lounging, injured and exhausted, on the bed), but he tries his best, with his arms akimbo and hands on his hips.

"Stop the melodrama, bard", Geralt growls, matching Jaskier's tone in displeasure, "It wasn't a "brush with death", as you put it. I am _fine_."

"Oh yes. Of course you are. Of course you are _just fine_ , you big old loner! Because it is so much better to just ... just shove all your emotions under the rug and pretend to be all unaffected and indifferent and ... and defiant and deny all help, than to admit your vulnerability and trust your friend to be there for you, you intransigent brute!"

"Yes! Yes it is! I _am_ a loner, and I _don't_ need you! _You_ are the one who began trailing behind me like a lost puppy, remember?"

Ordinarily, Geralt would not do this. He would not raise his voice and hurl such words at Jaskier. Because no matter how much of an arrogant, bitter bastard he is (or he believes himself to be), he knows deep down just how much he cares for Jaskier, and to what lengths Jaskier, in turn, would go in order to take care of him. 

But this time, it is different. He is hurting from the wounds he has sustained during the hunt, and his head is still pounding from the remnants of the venom in his system, and Jaskier's use of the word "Butcher" has made his heart crumple in a way he could not have foreseen. And it makes him snarl like that.

And he immediately regrets it. As he watches Jaskier's face fall.

"Right. You're right", Jaskier muses, eyes downcast, throat working to keep a tight leash on the sobs threatening to bust forth, "You don't need me."

"Jasky ...", Geralt's tone turns pleading, and he reaches out to touch Jaskier's hands.

Jaskier steps away. And his foul mood does not improve over the next two days.

********************************************************************************************************

The inn is a very hospitable one. The common room is warm and cozy, with a fire roaring away in the hearth. The innkeeper and her husband are jovial and welcoming, the atmosphere convivial and the occupants, whether locals or travelers boarding at the inn, are all happily chatting away with one another. 

All in all, Jaskier would have been absolutely thrilled had he not been in such a sour mood. 

Geralt has been to these parts in the southern realm of the Continent many times before. For Jaskier, this is a first. And Geralt feels strangely guilty and hollow seeing his bard weave his way through the crowd and flop down at a rather secluded booth instead of prancing his way up the common room's dais, announcing himself with his usual flourish and then beginning his performance for the eager audience.

He takes a deep, steadying breath, then walks up to the innkeeper to request a room for the night, as well as a couple of warm dinner platters.

"Master Witcher, would you like our signature mutton curry for dinner?", the innkeeper's wife asks goodnaturedly, once they are done deciding the price for room and board for the night, "It's got all the aromatic spices of the South, and we added lots of ginger to it to make it even warmer. It's perfect for a cold winter night such as this one."

"Well, Martha, unless you can specially prepare a version of it that does not contain your dreaded chili peppers, I am not even sure _I_ can tolerate it, let alone my friend over there", Geralt explains with a smile tugging at the corner of his lips, even as he turns to point towards where Jaskier is sitting.

Only to find Jaskier walking up to them.

"Oh hello, my dear! You must be our Witcher's bard", pipes up the motherly innkeeper's wife, beaming at Jaskier.

"Indeed. _His_ bard", Jaskier all but sneers at Geralt, his eyes ablaze, "Julian Alfred Pankratz, at your service, Ma'am."

Geralt tries very hard not to snap something. His chest feels tight, and his breaths suddenly feel laboured. He does not like the way Jaskier speaks. Not one bit. And he does not like it that Jaskier is using the name he so carefully tries to avoid giving to anyone, preferring to go by what he calls his "stage name".

Martha smiles sweetly, letting Jaskier kiss her knuckles, then ruffles his hair. "All right, all right ... what do you want for dinner?"

"Like I said, Martha, just a couple of your usual dinner platters. Bread, chicken soup, a fruit. Nothing else", Geralt replies instead, quite brusque, his brow puckered as he watches Jaskier out of the corner of his eye.

He sees Jaskier continuing to glare at him, and he struggles to ignore the suspiciously wet eyes of the bard.

"So, not going to try even a little bit of our special mutton curry?", Martha tries again.

And at that, Jaskier looks away from Geralt, and towards Martha.

"Oooh, I love the sound of that", he says with exaggerated cheerfulness, drawing another smile from Martha, "What is it like?"

And so, Martha tells him a bit about the traditional curry that is commonly eaten during early winter in the villages in those parts, along with the spices and aromatics and vegetables that are added to the curry.

"Oh that just sounds delightful", chirps Jaskier, entirely aware of the deepening frown on Geralt's forehead.

"You cannot tolerate spicy food, Jaskier", Geralt chides, "This curry has an inordinate amount of the southern hot chili peppers Martha mentioned. It's going to be too ..."

Jaskier rounds on Geralt, eyes flashing in unmistakable challenge. "Martha, dear, would you be so kind as to serve me the biggest bowl you have of this mutton curry?"

"Jaskier", the Witcher's growl is nearly a snarl, warning the bard he is crossing a line here.

Martha looks a bit apprehensive as her eyes flit between the two men standing in front of her with their shoulders squared and their chins jutting out in an almost belligerent stance, and yet she looks like she is fighting to hold back a smile.

"Martha, just take the order I placed", Geralt almost barks, tearing his eyes off Jaskier, "He cannot tolerate that much of chili, Martha", he adds, softening his tone.

"Well, Martha", Jaskier is not going to bow out of this, "Since it is I who is going to pay for dinner tonight", he fishes out several coins from his pocket and lets them drop with a clatter upon the stone tabletop, "I think I have earned myself the right to order my own dinner. Yes?"

He smiles sweetly at Geralt, who only scowls harder.

"Martha, please do not give him ..."

"Maybe I can propose a middle ground here? How about I ask my son, who is the chief cook around here, to prepare some veal curry with all those aromatic spices, but not the peppers? Or perhaps add just one pepper, deseeded? It is the seeds that are responsible for the heat, really", Martha tries to strike a conciliatory tone, unwilling to offend either of her two customers.

Jaskier slams his fist down on the counter, making both Martha and Geralt jump a little. " _I want the mutton curry_ ", he says through gritted teeth, his eyes boring holes into Geralt, "And I want you, my dear Martha, to add some extra chili peppers on the side, just in case the curry is not hot enough for me. Oh, and ... _not_ deseeded."

He throws Martha a disarming smile, as if to reassure her that he is not mad at her. Martha shrugs, unable to help much more, and retreats to the kitchen with a quiet "As you wish, Master Julian."

Jaskier keeps his eyes locked with the ramrod-straight-backed Witcher standing next to him, not flinching away from the way Geralt's amber eyes blaze like molten pools of lava. He then grabs the keys that Martha has left on the counter with excessive force, making them jangle, and then whirling around on the spot, stomps his way up the staircase to the room they have been assigned upstairs.

Geralt follows suit at a far more sedate pace, and tries to ignore the way his heart breaks just a little bit.

******************************************************************************************************************

Martha sends dinner up to their room, as requested earlier by Geralt. 

One platter contains a simple assortment of chicken soup, a fresh-out-of-oven warm loaf of bread, some mashed potatoes and an apple. The other contains bread and a humongous bowl of steaming mutton curry that is almost a deep red shade from all the spices the mutton has been stewed in, and floating on top of the rich gravy, several tiny, plump red chili peppers.

Jaskier, who has been sitting by the window, stubbornly facing away from Geralt, jumps down from his perch and casually strolls up to the rickety wooden table upon which Geralt has gingerly set down the tray laden with the platters. Geralt is standing next to it, eyeing Jaskier almost apprehensively.

"Jaskier ..."

Jaskier ignores the beseeching note in Geralt's voice.

"It really is too hot. Even for me, Jasky. I really don't think ..."

Jaskier smartly picks up his platter, then goes to sit upon the bed.

"Jasky, please. Why are you doing this?"

Jaskier begins tearing up the loaf of bread into bite-sized pieces, pointedly ignoring his companion.

"You are hungry. And tired. And you need good nourishment. And yet, you just ordered something you know full-well you won't be able to finish even a third of", Geralt huffs in impatience, walking up to Jaskier. He is yet to pick up his own platter, and his eyes hold nothing but concern for the bard.

Jaskier dunks the spoon into the curry, picks it up, blows a bit on it to cool it down, and then without sparing Geralt a single glance, without the slightest hesitation, pops it into his mouth. He chews a bit, and then swallows, with his eyes closed. 

_And then, his eyes fly open._

Jaskier is nothing if not an actor. His profession demands that of him. And there have been many, many nights when his false bravado has helped him stay upright on his feet and perform so impressively for his audience, despite his utter exhaustion after days of journeying alongside Geralt, that the innkeepers have offered the duo room and board for free.

_But right now, he is finding it really, really hard to pretend that his mouth and throat are not on fire._

And damn Geralt! The Witcher is sitting down tentatively next to the bard on the edge of the bed, one hand hovering over Jaskier's shoulder, eyes widened in worry, and softly asking, "Jasky? Are you okay?"

Jaskier shakes himself, then deposits another spoonful of curry into his mouth, not even bothering to temper the heat with some bread. He chews valiantly, and swallows.

_And feels his tongue and throat getting scorched._

He feels his cheeks heating up, and knows that the skin there is likely ruddy now. Through his peripheral vision, he sees Geralt leaning closer to him, worry clear in his features.

"Jasky, please ..."

Jaskier closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and starts shoveling spoonfuls of the curry into his mouth in quick succession. 

"Jasky, slow down", comes the barely heeded warning from somewhere next to him, but Jaskier's senses are buzzing now. He is barely holding back a cry of pain as the curry continues to blister away at the sensitive tissue of his mouth and throat.

Jaskier can feel copious amounts of sweat trickling down his back, and the whole room feels unbearably warm and suffocating. He can feel snots forming in his nasal canals, and tears pricking underneath the eyelids that he keeps squeezed shut as tight as he can. He is _not_ going to give Geralt the privilege of seeing him weak and crying ... not even when he feels the Wolf's large hand come to rest firmly upon his shoulder, helping to anchor him a bit.

Several more morsels of the curry are gulped down, until Jaskier is nearly panting with his mouth open, his pink tongue peeking out in a desperate attempt to cool down.

Geralt scoots closer, and attempts to wrest the bowl free of Jaskier's clutches.

"That's enough, Jaskier!", Geralt barks, his patience now worn paper-thin by the tantrums of his bard, "Let go! Let go now!"

And Jaskier, his bloodshot eyes now shining with unshed tears, leers at Geralt even as he snatches away a handful of the little red peppers floating on top of the curry and plops them into his mouth, clamps his mouth shut, and begins crunching on them.

"JASKY, NO!"

And almost simultaneously, the bard cries out in pain. 

"SPIT THEM OUT! SPIT THEM OUT NOW!", Geralt yells, desperately shaking the now-whimpering Jaskier.

There are rivulets of tears streaming down the bard's face, and mucous running down from his nostrils. He is panting, but struggling against Geralt, attempting to keep his mouth clamped shut.

Geralt grabs hold of Jaskier's cheeks and squeezes them, barking "NOW, JASKIER!"

Jaskier's body finally decides it has had enough of this barbaric assault on its taste buds. Urged on by the unrelenting Witcher's stern remonstrance, Jaskier finally opens his mouth and empties the half-chewed remnants of the chilies into Geralt's waiting palm.

_And then he begins to sob._

Everything feels on fire. Almost literally. The roof of his mouth feels like someone scoured it ruthlessly with an abrasive until it was left raw and chafing. His throat feels like someone poured bubbling lava down it. He can't even feel his tongue -- so numb it is from the pain and the shock. His entire mouth feels like it has been stuffed with sawdust, and the tissue lining it tingles painfully. And to make it all worse, he can feel the buildup of a burning reflux in his esophagus. 

He begins to cough, and a glass filled with water from the earthen pitcher standing at one corner of their room is pushed into his hands. But Geralt does not let go of the glass either, unsure if Jaskier is steady enough to hold on to it.

Jaskier drinks obediently, but instead of quelling the burn, it only seems to exacerbate it. The bard desperately starts flapping his hand in front of his mouth, his tongue lolling out as he tries to fan cool air on it. He is still sobbing, and the tears are now soaking his shirtfront. He can't utter Geralt's name, but he knows he needs help. A sort of gurgling noise ensues from his throat, as he clutches onto Geralt's arm as if the Witcher is his lifeline.

"Hold on. Hold on."

Geralt sets down the half-full glass of water on the bedside table, then cups Jaskier's face in his palms. Jaskier's sobbing in earnest now, and Geralt wipes away the cascading tears.

"Jasky ...", the name sounds broken on the Witcher's lips, and his face crumples in pain.

"G-gel-alt", Jaskier manages to choke out around his still lolling tongue. He can feel the Witcher's large palm splayed on his back, rubbing him through the fabric that is now drenched in perspiration.

"This is not helping. Hold on."

Geralt skitters away towards the door, before unlocking it.

"Stay", he commands, shooting a warning glare at Jaskier, who is truly in no condition to move. The bard does not even acknowledge him as he pants through the pain, eyes hazed through the veil of tears.

After what feels to Jaskier like an eternity, the door swings open and Geralt steps in, carrying a glass of cold milk.

"Here. I mixed lots of jaggery syrup with this, so it ought to be pretty sweet. Come on."

Geralt supports the back of Jaskier's neck and helps him sit up a bit from where he was slumped against the bed's headboard. He holds up the glass to Jaskier's lips, and the bard sips away, slowly but steadily.

The sweetened, cold milk soothes away at the scalded, blistered tissues, and feels like sweet, sweet relief as it courses down Jaskier's throat. He begins eagerly gulping down the milk until a stern "Easy!" from Geralt makes him slow down and enjoy it at a more leisurely pace. 

The entire time that Jaskier takes to finish every last drop of milk in the glass, he sags against Geralt, who supports him from the back like a pillar. The Witcher continues to rub up and down the bard's back and arms, comforting him, anchoring him. 

Once he is done, Geralt gently pries the glass from his fingers and sets it aside. Jaskier cannot even muster the strength to wipe away at the snot and the tears that have now dried up and left tracks on the dirt smudging his cheeks (from days of travel along dusty roads and little opportunities for baths). Geralt hoists him up a bit, so that now his head rests against the crook of the Witcher's neck. Fishing out a clean napkin from his pack that lies by the bedside, Geralt soaks it in the remaining water in the glass and wrings it free of excess droplets. Slowly, he brings it up to Jaskier's face, and gently begins dabbing away at the tear-tracks and the snot, wiping him clean.

Jaskier whimpers, and Geralt's free arm tightens around his midriff.

"Some more water?"

Jaskier nods faintly, his eyes still closed. Geralt props him up against a couple of pillows, then scoots away to fetch some cool water from the pitcher. This time, Jaskier drinks eagerly, and it finally seems to ease away the last vestiges of the heat from the peppers.

A soft, blissfully warm palm is pressed gently to the side of his face, making Jaskier hesitantly open his eyes.

"Sorry", he croaks, as his eyes, still brimming with tears, flick up to Geralt's. 

The amber-gold irises that stare back at him are sad. And an even sadder smile slowly appears on Geralt's face, making him look utterly defeated. It breaks something inside Jaskier, and the bard scoots forward to wrap his arms around Geralt.

"So this is how you punish me now", Geralt sighs, his shoulders drooping, "By hurting yourself, hmm? I have to say, Jaskier, it works splendidly."

Jaskier hangs his head, unable to form a clever comeback. He sniffles, then tries to burrow his face into the confines of Geralt's chest, but the Witcher does not relent.

Slowly, hesitantly, Jaskier raises his eyes to the Wolf.

"I am so sorry, Geralt."

"No, but you are right, Jasky", Geralt's eyes are downcast, and his lower lip wobbles almost imperceptibly (but Jaskier sees it anyway), "You are right. I am an obdurate, arrogant arsehole who refuses to own up to his feelings. Who refuses to acknowledge his ... his ..."

"Love?", Jaskier offers helpfully.

"Love", confirms Geralt, his eyes whipping up to meet Jaskier's.

Jaskier's breath hitches, but in the next instant, a dazzling smile breaks free on his face.

"Love. Yes. Yes. I ... I love you."

The declaration is simple. Without fuss or verbosity. Without beating around the bush. Plain, simple, quintessential _Geralt_.

Jaskier giggles like a young teenager, then presses his forehead to Geralt's. "I know", he says quietly, "I love you too, you dolt!"

"It's just ... I am so afraid, Jasky", Geralt whispers, the honest, candid admission falling off his lips before he can help it, "I ... you are so ... so lovely, Jasky. Gentle. Sweet. Loving. You ... you deserve so much more than I ..."

A palm is pressed down upon his lips to cut short his self-denigrating babble.

"Please, Geralt. How many times do I have to tell you that _you_ are my home? My world?"

"And you are my sun, Jasky. You light up my days. You are what lulls me to restful sleep at night. You help me hope again. How can I ... what if something happens to you? On one of our hunts? What if I cannot protect you, Jasky? What if you get hurt because of me? What if ..."

"Geralt, I would much rather spend a short, eventful life by your side than an eternity wallowing in loneliness and heartbreak and despair, torn and sundered from you."

Geralt does not have any fitting reply to that. He knows that no matter how compelling an argument he comes up with, Jaskier will be able to counter it all with naught but his unwavering, unfailing love and loyalty for Geralt. 

"But am I worth it, Jasky? Am I really? Don't you deserve someone better ... better at communicating? Someone who ... isn't so damaged? Some one who isn't so ... so hopelessly damned and scorned and ... and _feared_ ... by most humans? Someone who is as full of light as you are?"

"First of all, Geralt -- yes, you are absolutely shit at communication. But", Jaskier holds up his index finger, "You are getting there. I am coaxing a rather eloquent Wolf out of you."

Geralt snorts, but Jaskier continues.

"Second -- everyone's damaged. Everyone's got memories that they would rather be rid of. Everyone's sporting scars. Everyone's heart is a patchwork of cracks. And yours is one that's made of gold, steeped in compassion and honour. And it is _not_ your fault that most humans are too bigoted and scared to accept and embrace that which they do not understand."

"Jaskier, you put entirely too much faith in..."

"Indeed I do. And that's because I have stuck around you for a while now and you have amazed me, time after time, by your deeds of unfailing nobility. Even when there was no profit to make, no praise to win -- even then, you did what was right. What was kind. And never once thought about your own safety, your own reputation."

Geralt is breathing heavily, and he slumps a bit against Jaskier. And tries very hard not to cry.

"If you trust nothing else that I say, Geralt, trust this -- you are the bravest, noblest, kindest person I have ever met in my life. Or ever shall meet, really."

They stay like that for a while, and Jaskier loses track of time, and he does not remember when it is that Geralt leans forward and presses a soft kiss to his plump lips. They trade tender, sensuous kisses, their lips brushing against one another, as their arms hold each other close. They end up cuddling in bed, their amorous kisses becoming a tad more assertive and heated as time trickles by.

"Wait", says Geralt, "Let's finish dinner."

"I'm not sure I have any appetite left", snorts the bard.

Geralt ignores him. He brings his own platter over to the bed (the contents have gone long cold, but neither of them minds that), and he picks up the untouched bread from Jaskier's discarded platter. They settle down side by side, huddled close, and begin eating from the same plate.


End file.
